Taunted & Restless
by Ta Paixao
Summary: The topic was jealously, a toxic venom that saturates a temperate heart, infecting the host with mad fury and possessive rage. Lovers become murderers. Affection is distilled to infatuation. It is a debilitating consumption that devours mind and soul until only darkness survives. The infection begins with a single bite of interest. A curious taste.
1. Chapter 1

_Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended._

**Taunted & Restless**

**Inspiration: "Mess Around" by Indiana**

The topic was jealousy, a toxic venom that saturates a temperate heart, infecting the host with mad fury and possessive rage. Lovers become murderers. Affection is distilled to infatuation. It is a debilitating consumption that devours mind and soul until only darkness survives. The infection begins with a single bite of interest. A curious taste.

My pen scratched across the pages of my notebook. Professor Cullen didn't allow laptops in his sacred den of academia. He said technology inhibited the emotional connection necessary to appreciate literature. I think he was only greedy for our attention that might otherwise be lost in the virtual miles of the vast chasm that is the Internet mind suck.

"Isabella?"

My eyes shot up. No one called me Isabella. Even my parents had demoted me by two syllables before I hit double digits. When he had spoken my name on the first day of class, and I felt the way his tongue licked at every letter, I hadn't correct him.

"Yes?" I said. I imagined my embarrassment was visible. A burning aura of light pulsing as a beacon that emanated from my heated face.

"Have I failed to keep your interest?"

That was the trick. If I looked at him during his lectures, I became lost in the expression of his eyes. Terribly mundane, interesting things like the way the veins distended along his forearms or counting how many times his fingers combed through his hair would distract me. No, it was better that I kept my head down, eyes trained on the gender-neutral pages of my notebook. They didn't spark illicit fantasies.

"No," I said. The average person with a college education has a vocabulary of 50,000 words. Thus far, I had managed only two.

"Tolstoy?" His lips drew up to one side, the mischievous side.

"He didn't like vampires." Brilliant. I was a charming conversationalist, as evidenced by the laughter of my classmates following my remark.

"You have my rapt attention." Amused, Professor Cullen took a seat on the front of his desk, arms crossed.

Better back that up, genius. "In the epilogue to _The Kreutzer Sonata_, he attempts to explain his ideals of sexual abstinence in relation to adultery and Pozdnyshev's jealous rage which drove him to murder his wife."

"Remind me," the professor said, "I'm a bit rusty."

He was polished steel. A hard, clean, lethal edge dressed up in charisma. You wouldn't know he'd stuck you until the taste of blood filled your mouth.

"Tolstoy refers in part to prostitution. Specifically, he blames the popular falsehood of the day that a man's health required regular sexual intercourse. As if a sorry sap might keel over from testicular seepage into his stomach."

If ever there was a myth concerning the decorum of literary scholars in training, my classmates dispelled such an idealist falsity with their snickering and muttered retorts. Plebeians.

And that sort of attitude explained why I didn't have many friends.

"He reasons that without this false science to excuse the behavior of adultery and pre-marital sex, the demand for sex workers would diminish, therefore the supply of women for purchase would likewise decrease. Tolstoy states that it is immoral for one class to feed off the blood of another. The rich from the poor. Men from women. He equates men who seek the services of prostitutes with parasites. This harkens back to the romanticized myth of vampires as sexual creatures, seducing women to fulfill a debauched predilection."

The professor licked his lips, which made me consider the teeth they concealed. And then they were dragging through my imagination.

"Isabella?" He did it again, tenderly escorting the syllables, like a reward.

"Yes?"

"Gold star."

He understood me in a way others could not. He appreciated the odd manner in which my mind made connections out of seemingly unrelated details. We were similar that way, both a bit unusual, unordinary.

* * *

"You can't subject Othello's actions to logic," she said. Angela smacked her binder on the coffee table in the center of our group, ready to launch into a tirade. It was her nature to be argumentative. She made it a habit to form an opinion on everything. "The reason is immaterial. Iago works him into a frenzy with the loosest evidence, but by that point, Othello nearly wants to believe the lie."

"Why believe Iago in the first place?" Jacob slouched in the armchair, exasperated. "His accusations are so out of left field for Desdemona's character," Jake said. "It isn't rational. The entire basis—"

"I wasn't finished." Apparently the period at the end of her sentence was only a pause for effect. "Jealousy, by definition, is not rational."

"The state of feeling or being jealous," I said.

"What?" I assumed her glare was meant to intimidate. She failed.

"The definition of jealousy."

At the opposite end of the sofa we shared, our matching messenger bags situated between us, Professor Cullen slid a glance my way. "I believe Isabella takes issue with your usage."

To maintain the theme, I slapped my copy of Steven Wagschal's book _The Literature of Jealousy in the Age of Cervantes_ on the coffee table beside Angela's binder, since we were using props for emphasis. Professor Cullen took note of the title and smiled in the crooked way he reserved only for me. He held a PhD in the study of Cervantes. I had seen the book on the shelf in his office the last time I visited to discuss my essay assignment.

"Cervantes' Old Man from Extremadura becomes jealous of his wife, though he's yet to choose a bride. That's pathological," I said. "That's irrational."

"Exactly," Angela said too quickly.

"But Wagschal points out that a man who is suspicious of his lady's fidelity based on evidence, even hearsay from a trusted advisor such as Othello from Iago, is rationally justified.

Sipping my latte, I allowed my own theatrical pause to percolate. The professor reclined, arms extended along the back of the sofa. He took pleasure from these discussions.

"By this criteria, the separation of pathological and rational jealousy, it is not the evidence that is immaterial. In fact, the presence of evidence is a deciding factor. Rather, it is the truth that becomes irrelevant. In either case, we see that the outcome is often the same. Someone has to die to feed the hysteria."

"We weren't even assigned that text," Angela said, seeking to minimize my contribution by excluding my source material. Given the audience, that wasn't her best move.

"Isabella opened the door," Professor Cullen said. "I suggest the rest of your walk through it. We'll pick up the discussion in class on Monday."

Angela made tracks, huffing and puffing to blow the place down as she stomped out of the coffee shop.

"She hates you," Jake whispered beside me as he bent to collect his backpack.

"I get that a lot." And I cared less than a little.

"Angela can't stand anyone smarter than she is." So I noticed. "For what it's worth," he said, as if sharing a secret, "I think you're clever."

Clever. That was a good word. Of all the names I had been called growing up, that was among the better ones. "Special" was term often tossed out in parent-teacher conferences. Bella the snowflake in summer. Bella the unicorn in a herd of bison. Always misplaced.

"That's nice," I said. "Thank you." Flipping through my notes, I glanced toward the back of the café where the professor stood at the checkout counter.

"So…" He ran out of tasks for his hands, stuffing them in his jacket pockets. "Can I walk you home?"

"I've got a ride."

"Oh. Okay. Well, how about lunch tomorrow?"

"I have an appointment."

"Are you being difficult on purpose?" Jake had a pleasant smile, straightforward. It did nothing for me.

"I'm seeing someone," I said. "If that's what you're getting at."

"Isabella." Standing with his matching messenger bag over his shoulder, Professor Cullen gestured for me to join him. "A moment please?"

"Sorry." I gave Jake what I thought was an appropriately contrite smile before leaving him behind.

Approaching the professor, he held out a ceramic mug. I took a warm sip flavored with chocolate and caramel.

"My treat," he said. "You earned it."

"Have you been spying on me?"

"I notice the details." He led us to a quiet corner, private seating for two.

"So I shouldn't find it peculiar that you've memorized my coffee order," I said, crossing my legs as I hugged the warm mug to pull in another sip.

"Completely innocent."

"Why don't I believe that?"

"Because you, Isabella, are not the trusting type."

It wasn't necessary to use a person's name in conversation quite as often as he liked to mention mine. He spoke as if looking for any excuse hold the letters on his tongue.

"Don't out me," I said. "It will only reinforce my reputation."

"You're an intelligent woman." Add that last word to the list of terms that took on new meaning when spoken by Professor Cullen. He made "woman" sound salacious and enticing. "And you have a sturdy backbone. There isn't much the world can withhold from a smart, confident female."

"Promise?"

Something sparked inside those eyes that lit matches in my dreams. Green phosphorus that appeared docile until struck against the friction of my imagination. He blinked and leaned away, noticing how he had crept closer through our brief exchange.

"Was there something you wanted to ask me, Professor?"

"Do you intend to apply to the graduate program next year?"

"I do."

"Then consider having me as your thesis advisor."

"I'm not sure you're old enough to play the part," I said. Bringing one leg underneath me, I erased inches between us. Professor Cullen couldn't be more than 32.

"And you're not so naïve as to play the doe-eyed ingénue." But he did picture it. He couldn't hide the tone of his voice that sang repressed fantasies. "Let's buck convention together."

"I'll evaluate my prospects," I said. In reward, he gave me his mischievous smirk, dragging those vicious teeth across his lip. "It's late." I placed my empty mug on the table and picked up my messenger bag. "I should head home."

"I'll walk you out."

At the sidewalk, I pulled the hood of my sweater over my hair and slid on my gloves.

"Where's your car?" he asked.

"I'm walking. My apartment is just off Corrine."

"That's three miles." He looked up and down the street, his brow furrowed. The professor appeared almost angry that I would go home on two feet rather than four wheels. "You're not walking home alone."

"It's a daily occurrence," I said. "I assure you, I know the way."

"Rape is a daily occurrence." His lips curled up to spit out the sour phrase. "It's dark."

"My sight is just fine."

"You're—"

"What? Women have feet and eyes and carry knives."

He put his hand to the small of my back, pushing me three steps before I planted my feet.

"Isabella, you can fight me in the cold or in the heat of my car, but you're coming with me."

"Yes, Professor."

His eyes flamed and he swallowed, teeth clenched. What might he be capable of behind a locked door?

The professor all but shoved me in the passenger seat and watched me latch my seatbelt like I might jump out of the vehicle otherwise, make a break for it. This wasn't a man who had ever witnessed a woman run in the opposite direction. The seatbelt clicked and his eyes lingered on the strap across my chest. He liked the sight of me restrained within his domain. It pleased him, just as much as it teased his ire.

At my apartment building, he saw me to the door. Professor Cullen was agitated. He normally wore an easy expression, relaxed. Now his jaw remained clenched, the muscles at his temples pulsing.

"Thank you for the ride," I said, digging my keys from my bag.

"You should have those out before you get to the door." His statement came out as a clipped order. "Keep them between your fingers."

"I appreciate your concern, Professor."

"Don't do that," he said. "Don't condescend."

"Would you like to come up and check under my bed as well?"

His hand twitched at his side like it wanted to reach out and grab me by the back of the neck, fisting in my hair, so that I might understand he was not a man to trifle with.

"Do not mistake my temperance for impotence, Isabella. The next time you come to study group, you will have a ride home."

"Not likely." I might have heard a tooth crack in his skull. Or perhaps it was only a twig snapping on a branch. "My roommate doesn't drive, either."

He appeared inflamed by my defiance. His voice sank lower, attempting to instill in me some sense of fear. There was very little I found frightening. "A classmate, then. Jacob looks willing and eager."

"Am I to invite him in to mess around afterward? Are you running a dating service? Because his intentions aren't selfless."

"Damn it," he hissed. "Don't be difficult."

"That's several 'don'ts' and 'do nots' thus far, Professor." I unlocked the front door and went inside.

"We're not done," he said, grabbing the door before it shut behind me. Anger coiled around his tongue.

"You can fight me in the cold or in the heat of my living room. Either way..."

The professor muttered a "fuck" under his breath, stomping up the stairs to follow. Inside my apartment, I tossed my bag on the kitchen counter then went to the fridge to pour a glass of wine. "Would you like some?"

"I can't."

"Do you abstain?"

He stood just inside the door, scanning the small space. "It wouldn't be appropriate. I shouldn't be here."

"Why not?"

"Don't—" He caught himself, grinding his teeth. "You know the answer. I shouldn't be drinking alone with a student."

"You bought me coffee."

"In public. That was different."

"I see." I peeled off my hoodie, tossing it over my bag. "If you can't and shouldn't, why are you still here?"

"I want your word." He stalked toward me, pulling the glass from my lips. "Stop fucking around."

"That was blunt."

"Your word, Isabella. I won't have you walking home alone after dark. It isn't safe."

"As I'm out of alternatives, I'll have to bow out of study group."

"Is it your aim to spite me?"

"Not at all. I'm only drawing a conclusion based on your criteria of what I may and may not do."

He turned away, dragging his hand through his hair. On a deep breath, his tense shoulders rose and held there before his lungs deflated. "You'll let me drive you home."

"Yes, Professor."

He walked out, slamming the door behind him.

* * *

"Must you do that?" He said.

"Do you have some bizarre animosity toward music?" I scanned through the radio stations, searching for an appropriate soundtrack.

"Your attention deficit is distracting." He glanced at me out of the corner of his eye, lips tilting upward as he drove.

"Am I annoying you, Professor?"

"Yes, in fact."

"We need road music." I ignored his objections, turning up the volume on a good selection.

"I'll have you home in six blocks," he said, shutting off the radio. "Can you not suffer me in silence?"

"Theoretically speaking, purely hypothetical, what would a professor of English literature do for fun if he had a social life?"

"So, no?"

"I think carting me around is the most interesting part of your week," I said.

"You'd be surprised."

"Something torrid?"

"That's a subjective term."

"In what circles would your activities be considered pejorative?"

"I'm certain I don't want to answer that," he said.

"Now you've piqued my curiosity." I released my seatbelt as he stopped in front of my apartment building. "And that can't end well."

"Goodnight, Isabella."

"Good luck, Professor."

* * *

"I know what you're doing." Angela approached me where I leaned against the wall outside of our classroom. She kept her voice hushed behind her expression of smug righteousness.

"Reading." My attention remained embedded in the assigned text for today's lecture.

"Spreading your legs for a grade."

"Fascinating," I said. "I'm riveted." How was I to take her conviction seriously when she leveled her accusations in conspiratorial whispers?

"I've seen you going home with him after study group. How does it feel to be the professor's pet whore?"

"Do you see a leash around my neck?"

"You don't deny it."

"I won't dignify your accusation with a response." Lifting my eyes to hers, I took a step forward. "A little friendly advice, though? Don't poke the snake if you intend to cut off its head. You'll only make it angry."

"Is that a threat?"

"Weren't you listening?

"Ladies." Professor Cullen stood holding the door open, gesturing for us to enter. "Save the debate for class."

It seemed Angela had exhausted her vocabulary, as she had nothing to contribute to the day's discussion.

* * *

"You're late," the professor said as I dropped my bag to the floor and took my usual seat on the sofa.

"I know. Sorry. Something came up."

He scowled at the face of his watch. Staring at his wrist wouldn't undo my apparent awful transgression. "Try to be more considerate in the future. My time is valuable."

"Do you take Visa?" The bulging vein in the professor's forehead did not see the levity in my comment. Perhaps he would be content to slap a ruler to the back of my hand. "I sent Angela a text."

"She isn't here," he said. Looking around at the empty seats, there were a few absent faces. "Where is everyone?"

"Jessica told me she wasn't going to make it," Jake said. "Ben is traveling with the marching band for a football game."

"Has anyone heard from Angela?"

"Maybe she's tied up," I said.

Pulling out my notebook and today's reading assignment, I took my seat between the men. Jake slid a coffee cup across the table, smiling in that unthreatening way he did.

"It might have gotten cold," he said.

I took a sip of black coffee, forcing down the bitter taste. "It's perfect. Thank you."

"We've wasted enough time," the professor said, eyeing the cup cradled in my lap. "Let's begin."

Professor Cullen's apparent irritation only compounded as the evening progressed. He carried on as if burdened by the group's inane chatter and incessant questions too banal to warrant comment. Where typically he engaged in conversation, tonight he ignored the discussion in favor of grading essays.

"In chapter 12," Jacob said, "I don't understand Milton's—"

"Catch up." The professor threw down the folder stuffed with stapled pages. "The purpose of these sessions is not to coddle the inept to keep pace. Your classmates should not have to suffer your lagging comprehension."

Jacob stared at him; his mouth hung open, frozen at the moment Professor Cullen sucked the voice from his question. Seconds of stunned silence passed before the professor stalked out the back door, likely to compose himself with a cigarette.

"He didn't mean that," I said to Jake. "Don't worry about it."

"Yeah. Whatever. Jackass." He didn't stick around for an apology.

I tossed the cold, unpalatable coffee in the trash and ordered a latte. When the professor returned to our table, he smelled of cloves, the kind that left a distinct, sweet flavor on his lips.

"You cleared the room," I said as he began stuffing papers into his messenger bag. "Is something bothering you, Professor?"

He ripped his keys from his pocket. "Time to go."

In his car, the warm smell of masculinity wafted around the confined space. I missed the scent of a man—virility and power. It seemed the senses associated with my memories faded faster after every encounter. I missed strong hands and muscles that bent flesh to his will. Most of all, I missed the rabid ferocity that invaded my blood.

"You're leading him on." The professor pulled up to my apartment building, his hands fisted on the wheel.

"Jacob?" He didn't respond, though the muscle pulsing above in his jaw was answer enough. "It was only coffee," I said. "In public." He slid a narrow glare toward me. "Is that an outright invitation to bed?"

"Do what you will with your personal affairs. I don't want the fallout contaminating my classroom."

"I'm not attracted to Jake." Removing my seatbelt, I turned to speak to the professor's rigid profile. "I was merely being polite."

"At that age, eye contact is an invitation."

"Is that why you won't look at me?"

His eyes snapped to mine. "Goodnight, Isabella."

"Goodnight, Professor."

* * *

The venue was small, wedged inside the underground space that barely contained it. If all its occupants exhaled at once, the room might burst at the seams. Beneath my feet, the floor vibrated with kinetic verve. Bodies met and molded, filling the bar with the heat of inebriated ecstasy. I sat on a bar stool, an empty glass in front of me, rolling an unlit cigarette between my fingers.

He was easy to spot the moment he walked inside. Crossing to the bar, the man who stood a foot above the crowd left a wake of parting occupants behind him. Waves of undulating couples dispersed for his passage then swallowed the empty space he vacated.

The only spare inches at the bar lay beside me. He lodged his thick arms and broad chest in the narrow pocket, leaning forward to call the bartender's attention. As he waited, the man pulled a smoke from his pack. I pushed my empty glass forward, bringing my cigarette to my lips.

"Got a light?" I said.

His thumb flicked and flame caught the end of the stick.

"Thank you." I took a drag, leaning one arm on the bar to face the handsome stranger.

"What are you drinking?"

"Something hard, straight up."

He smiled, eyes lit with amusement. "Good answer."

Three drinks later, he had me pressed against the wall beside the storeroom. With one leg hiked up around his hip, I dug my fingers into his short hair. His kiss was urgent and chaotic, hands aimlessly pawing at me.

"I want you," he said. "Let's get out of here."

"What's your name?"

"You'll be screaming Emmett when I get inside you."

"Not tonight, Emmett."

"What?" He held my jaw in one massive hand, glowering at the prize I intended to withhold. "Come on, baby."

"Isabella," I said. "Not baby." My fingers dipped under his shirt to claw down his back. Emmett pinned my body to the wall with the pressure of his hips and a thick erection pushing between my legs. "Tomorrow's my birthday."

"Oh yeah?" The light of anticipation returned to his dark eyes. "You want a dick for your birthday?" Grabbing my wrist, he shoved my hand at the bulge in his jeans.

"Come find me, same time tomorrow." I left him with a kiss and the possibilities of how he might succeed in using me.

During the cab ride home, I checked voicemail and replied with innocuous text messages. Muting the phone, I watched the video captured on my way to study group the evening prior, suppressing a smile. Maybe next year I would get a dog.

* * *

The setting was identical, save for the thrill of anticipation licking up my arms. I smelled the hint of cloves on Emmett's clothing when he approached from behind to press his mouth to my neck. "Happy Birthday."

"Thank you." I turned on my stool to look up at the tall package of eager male. "I thought you might forget about me."

"Not a chance." Taking my hand, he helped me to my feet. One arm wound behind my back, squeezing my ass. "Are you alone?"

"Not anymore."

"I'm here with a friend," he said, walking us through the crowd to the booths at the back of the room. "Have a few with us then we'll head to your place."

"Perfect."

Seated alone in the corner booth, Professor Cullen stubbed out his clove and licked his lips before tilting his head back to expel the smoke upward. I inhaled, catching the fragrance permeating the air. His hand cradled a short glass of dark liquid while light from the candles in the center of the table played tricks across his face.

"Have a seat," Emmett said, "Edward, this is Isabella, the birthday girl." The professor's incendiary gaze flared as his eyes traveled up my chest to meet my face. His jaw clenched. "Move over, man. Make room."

He grabbed his drink, sliding around the circular table to let us sit. "Did you check her ID?"

"You're 18, right?" Emmett said, smirking as he slipped his hand over my thigh.

"Sure." I glanced at the imaginary watch on my wrist. "In two hours."

"See?" Emmett winked and his hand rose higher between my legs. "No problem."

Edward didn't appreciate the joke and turned his attention to the half-empty glass between his hands.

"How about that drink?" I said.

"Sure thing." Emmett squeezed out of the booth and nodded at Edward. "You?"

"Double," he said, draining his glass in one gulp then slamming the bottom on the wood surface.

I watched Emmett fade into the masses, knowing that the professor was studying the back of my head. He took his sweet time before he broached the subject, but when he did, his jagged voice tugged down my spine.

"What are you doing with him?"

I set my palm over the candles, letting the flames lick at my skin and turn the flesh red. "Celebrating my birthday."

The heat was invigorating as it turned from pleasure to pain. I enjoyed the sting, the intolerable burn that seared every nerve.

"Stop it." He grabbed my wrist to yank my hand from the fire. The professor didn't let go, leaning close enough that I caught the scent of smoke and whisky on his breath. "Why are you here?"

"Asked and answered," I said.

His hand gripped my wrist tightly, enough to leave a bruise, but I didn't struggle. I was caught in the eruption of anger in his eyes. "What are you playing at?"

"He wants me and I want a man in my bed. Is that candid enough for you?"

He released me, seething. The muscles in his temples throbbed. "I'm to believe you didn't know I'd be here?"

"Are you insinuating that I followed you, Professor?" I pulled a clove from the pack sitting between us, lighting the tip in the burning candle. "I come here to hide," I said. "I suspect our reasons aren't so different."

Professor Cullen preferred to indulge here, a thirty-dollar cab ride from the university. In his favorite dive, he was far removed from the radius of cheap bars surrounding the campus that catered to students seeking a high alcohol content-to-dollar ratio with which to drown their livers.

"You come to escape recognition." Smoke curled in the air between us and I licked the sweet flavor from my lips. "I enjoy older men."

"You need to leave," he said. "We shouldn't be seen like this."

"Who's going to notice?" I looked around the bar at couples and groups mingling and propositioning one another. They were oblivious and cared not at all for whatever tawdry occurrences taking place near them. "In any case, I didn't come here for you."

"Keep your hands to yourself." At the edge of the table, Emmett set down our glasses, smiling at Edward's apparent advance on his date. "I saw her first."

"How about a dance?" I swallowed a mouthful of bourbon and slipped out of the booth, stubbing the clove in the ash tray. Dipping my fingers into his waistband, I dragged Emmett out to the dance floor, leaving the professor behind to watch.

What Emmett lacked in skill, he made up for in vulgarity. The man danced as if to shave the clothing from my body. His hands were unashamed, grabbing and groping among dozens of spectators who paid us no attention. On my neck, his breath was hot musk laced with amaretto and sour. But I closed my eyes and breathed in cloves and Irish whisky. I imagined long fingers clutching my hips and a sharp tongue whispering in my ear.

"I can't wait to bend you over," Emmett said. He described the way he would take from my body before inevitably creeping out of my room before the sun rose. From behind, his fingers moved over my stomach, under my shirt, and down the front of my pants.

"That's enough." Edward caught Emmett's arm, ripping it away. He appeared as six feet of fuming male, coiled and tense. "Get off her."

"What is your deal, man?"

"You can't have this one," he said.

"That's not up to you."

"Professor-"

"What?" Emmett rounded on me, astonished by my admission.

"She's my student," Edward said. "You're coming with me, Isabella."

"I didn't know." Emmett backed away. His befuddled expression watching as Professor Cullen took my arm to escort me outside.

The professor kept a firm hold on my bicep while towing me down the sidewalk. At his car, the headlights flashed. He opened the door, shoving me at the passenger seat. "Get in."

He peeled away from the curb, darting into traffic. The professor's temper fascinated me. I fixated on the straining veins in his forearms, the taut muscles of his neck, and the motion of his grinding teeth. At a red light, when I thought he might speak, his fist snapped out to punch the dashboard, dislodging three buttons from the radio.

"What are you doing to me?" he said. Edward raced from one light to the next. We traveled in bursts of speed and abrupt stops.

"I don't understand your meaning, Professor."

"The fuck you don't." His narrow glare inflamed me. Heat lashed at my nerves, stoked by the wrath in his tenor. "I picked a fight with my best friend over-"

"A girl."

"You," he said. "It was profane the way he touched you. Like you were something obscene. I-"

"Wanted it to be you."

"Don't-" Again he swallowed the order, punching the roof. "We're not-"

"You're jealous."

"I'm your teacher."

"That's part of the appeal. We want what we can't have."

"That's not a good excuse."

"I'm attracted to you. I'm not ashamed of that. So don't be ashamed to admit you get off on knowing you could have me, if you tried."

"It's unethical."

"Right. Look but don't touch," I said. "I'm not going to sit on the shelf waiting for you to play with me."

"I won't respond to that."

"You don't have to."

"You have to stop," he said, eyes focused ahead.

"Give me a good reason, because I'm not sure I want to."

"Because I can't control myself." He combed through his hair, tugging at the long strands. "I'm going mad."

"I can be discreet." Leaning closer, I slowly slid my hand over his thigh. The professor sucked in a breath, bracing at my touch. "I'll keep the secret." He hardened beneath my palm, a rigid length of building need.

"Isabella." But he didn't say no.

"You can have me."

"You can't say things like that to me."

"Why?"

"Because you don't hand an addict a loaded needle."

"Am I dangerous, Professor?" I took my hand away. Edward groaned, though he attempted to bite back his response.

"You know you are."

Reclining in my seat, I unbuttoned my jeans. Streetlights pulsed, flashing past the windows as the car sped toward campus. My fingers glided inside to feel the slick wetness below. He didn't say a word, only slowing his speed as I touched myself. His attention flicked between the road and me, watching my fingers play where he wanted to be. I inserted one finger then a second, grinding on the heel of my palm to manipulate my clit. The scrutiny of my audience propelled me, twisting the knots of desire in my stomach. I shook in my seat, trembling. With the heat billowing from the dash, the car became saturated in the scent of my ecstasy. My free hand gripped the headrest behind me and my hips lifted. I cried out, shuddering and relieved but still unfulfilled.

The car jolted to a halt outside my apartment. Edward stared at me, breathing hard. His eyes were black coals rimmed in electric jade. "What was that?"

"I couldn't stand it any longer."

"You're tormenting me," he said. "I have too much to lose."

"Tell me you don't want me."

He sighed, brows furrowed in consternation. "I can't allow myself to have you."

I unlatched my seatbelt and fixed my pants. "Goodnight, professor. Thank you for the ride."

My apartment was dark and empty when I tossed my keys on the kitchen counter. I went to my bedroom window that looked down on the street below. His car sat idling at the curb. Minutes passed, then the headlights went dim. I witnessed his resolve crumble with the last fortifications of his better judgement. The professor got out of the car, slamming the door behind him. Rounding the vehicle, he punched the passenger window before approaching the building. The intercom in the living room buzzed.

Professor Cullen stood in my doorway with a look of malice and ill intent. I took a step back, letting him inside. He grasped my neck, pushing me against the wall. His thumb swept over my lips and I parted for him, sucking on the pad of his finger.

Edward's free hand clutched my hip as he pressed himself between my legs. "This won't be over quickly. I won't be gentle."

"I'm not fragile."

"I'll make you prove it."

His lips sealed over mine, sucking the air from my lugs, suffocating and demanding. His hand around my neck tightened as he drew my thigh around his hip, the hard length of his cock embedded between my legs. I pulled at his hair, eliciting a violent tremor from his chest that he bellowed into my mouth. My nails raked lower, down his neck and then under his shirt to claw down his back. He could have all of me, and I'd take his blood in return.

Edward pulled away. Feral eyes stared back, studying me. "What can't I do to you?"

"Nothing."

"Get on your knees." With one hand, he shoved me to the floor, my back against the wall. With the other, he ripped open the buttons on his jeans. "Give me your mouth."

Edward's cock hung long and thick in front of my face. He fisted the shaft and brought it to my open lips. I moved to stroke him, but he grabbed my wrist and held it above my head. As I wrapped my lips around the wide crest, he took my other wrist, keeping both stretched aloft.

He lied, because Edward was gentle, at first. He stood stiff as my tongue laved at the head and down the shaft. He throbbed in my mouth as I sucked and polished the firm rod. Then he leveraged his weight forward and thrust his hips. Slowly at first, but with increasing vigor, he fucked my mouth, plunging his dick down my throat and holding it there while I swallowed around him, desperate for air. When my fingers twitched in his hands, he pulled out to allow my chest to fill with air again, then quickly stuffed my mouth once more.

I was high on him already, overcome by the scent and heat of his masculinity, the taste of hard flesh. The foreplay was over too soon. Edward pulled me to my feet and tore open my shirt. Releasing the front clasp of my bra, his warm hands captured my breasts, massaging them.

"Of course I've wanted you," he said. "To corrupt. To poison." He pinched my pebbled nipples, tugging each one. "You're young, brilliant, and so tempting." His lips closed around one peak, sucking and lashing with his tongue. "I'm not the man you fantasize about."

"I know exactly what you are." Sharp. Lethal. I wanted him to shed the mask and slake his unseemly passions with my body.

Hoisting me off my feet, Edward dug his teeth into my bottom lip. He carried me through my open bedroom door, planting me on the bed. His T-shirt landed on the floor and I looked up to admire the shadows wrapped around his bare chest in the darkness. Hints of tattoos peered around his ribs from behind and consumed my curiosity.

Hastily, my jeans were yanked from my legs until I lay prone and exposed to the professor's appraisal. Kneeling at the foot of my bed, he pried apart my knees to lick through my slit. I writhed against his mouth, hands fisted in the sheets as he ate at my pussy. His tongue flicked over my clit, stabbed inside, and lapped at every inch of swollen flesh.

"I want you to come," he said. Edward thrust two fingers into my needy recess, pumping vigorously. "I need you soaked when I fuck you."

His teeth scraping my clit became my undoing. I cried out, grabbing his hair and constricting my thighs as a vice around his head. The spasms were too much. The sensation of pricking needles overcame my hands and toes. My lips went numb as I panted through my climax. Edward licked me clean, but gave me not a moment respite before he stood and discarded his jeans.

"Bend over and spread your legs," he said, stroking his cock.

I got on all fours, bowing my spine to offer myself. Edward caressed my breasts and down my ribs. He scorched earth with those palms. His fingers were fire starters. His words, gasoline.

"I won't like myself for doing this," he said, cupping my ass.

"I won't hate myself for letting you."

The professor's hand landed with a fierce sting. I bit my lip, shoving down the scream of pain. Again. Again. I grit my teeth and took it all, alive and awakened. Satisfied that he'd sufficiently tamed my flesh, Edward climbed on the bed and impaled me on one long, swift stroke. My shoulders collapsed to the bed as I bent to him, filled and stretched as I had never been before. He held my hips, slamming into me without reserve.

"You're mine tonight," he said, thrusting savagely. "What I want. How I want."

Hands on my lower back, he pressed me flat to the mattress, driving his cock deeper. I tugged at the sheets, ripping them from the bed's corners. The man was ruining me, purposeful and unapologetic. The reality obliterated my fantasies and I would never find the same gratification with another. On every biting strike, he rendered me immune to other men. No one had ever invaded my being so completely, answering every want.

Draping his body over mine, Edward pummeled me with exacting hits. My muscles clenched around his cock, pulling and tugging to drag him deeper. My body wrapped itself around his hard shaft, claiming it as he asserted his ownership.

His fist yanked my hair to pull my head back. Hungry teeth latched on my neck. Unrepentant, I screamed for him to mark me. Embedded, Edward's pelvis ground against my backside, burrowing his dick to massage every sensitive and eager inch of my insides. He growled against my salt-coated skin then spoke with coarse texture.

"On your back," he said. "I want to watch you come."

He pulled out and I turned over to gaze at sin incarnate, waiting to finish me.

"Tell me something honest." I ran my hands down his chest. The tight muscles of his abdomen clenched beneath my touch.

"I would enjoy taking my time to break you, Isabella." Kneeling between my legs, he rubbed the head of his dick along my slit, teasing my entrance. "And I'd make you like it."

"I'm not complicated. Ruthless gets me off."

He covered my body with his, long and lean and radiating with passionate heat. I arched up to meet him as he offered his lips and sank inside. I coiled around him, thighs clasped around his hips and hands gripping his back. With his face buried against my shoulder, he unleashed the last of his viciousness.

"Take it." His lips sucked at my neck. "You fucking magnificent disaster."


	2. Chapter 2

_Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended._

**A/N:** The concept of this story began as a one-shot, which I then decided to expand to a two-shot. Well, as this story continues to play out in my mind, I've decided that it needs a little room to breathe. As a result, I'm expanding this to a multi-chap. I hope you enjoy the ride. :-)

In other news, I have a new blog: **tapaixao dot com**. I've also started an EPOV drabble that I am exclusively posting to the blog: **_A Quick Trip_**. I am also working on a new full-length fic: **_The Northland Fires_**. I'll be posting teasers to the blog.

* * *

**Taunted & Restless**

**Chapter 2**

This never happened.

Those were the words written in deliberate black ink on a torn piece of paper. In the middle of the night I woke alone to a buzzing phone and his taunting epitaph planted on my nightstand.

* * *

"These characters represent two extremes on the spectrum of scorned women. The first—"

Entering the room on Monday morning, I let the door slam shut behind me. Mid-thought, Professor Cullen caught my approach.

"You're late, Isabella." He watched as I proceeded down the aisle and passed my usual inconspicuous position in the back of the room.

I pictured his hand around my neck, his lips on my skin. To my ears his voice was strained ferocity, but it was only an illusion.

"I know," I said.

Jacob looked me over as I squeezed by to take the seat beside him. His eyes lingered at my breasts and the entire class saw it happen while I gave the professor my back.

"As you've interrupted my lecture and stolen precious seconds from your classmates, who managed to find their way in a timely manner—"

"Clock's ticking," I said, pulling out my notebook and slapping it on the fold-out desk. "How about we skip the diatribe. Suffice it to say, there was a matter that required my attention."

"Would you care—"

"I really wouldn't," I said. "Discretion is a virtue, Professor." The muscles in his neck contracted as he swallowed. Yes, he understood. Two-dozen pairs of eyes stared forward, waiting for his response. "Two extremes on the spectrum..."

"The first," he began as his eyes found a new point of focus, "is still considered among the most vile and ruthless literary examples of blood revenge..."

"What was that about?" Jacob leaned toward me, his arm grazing mine as he whispered.

"Not in the mood for his temper tantrum," I said.

"I think he's afraid of you." Jake smiled, quite pleased to witness the professor made impotent by a few curt words.

"He should be."

His expression altered and paused. Jake appeared stuck on a thought but uncertain of his words.

"What?" I asked.

"You look different." Again he appraised me, traveling the black fabric from my chest to my lap. Amazing the attention a woman can attract with a blow dryer and a little eyeliner. "It's a good look on you."

"Are you hitting on me?"

"You have a boyfriend," he said with a smirk.

"And what if the position was recently vacated?"

"Then I'd ask you to have lunch with me."

Professor Cullen ceased his pacing across the floor to glare at our hushed conversation. "'… Marry the maid if thou wilt; perchance full soon thou mayst rue thy nuptials.' What is implied here as Medea confronts Jason?"

"She's saying, 'Go on and marry the bitch, but you'll regret it.'" The class snickered at Jessica's ineloquent translation. She was essentially correct.

"And the result of her foreboding challenge?" the professor asked.

"Medea goes batshit and poisons Creon and his daughter," Jessica said. "Then kills her two children to spite Jason."

"Batshit, indeed." The professor sat on the edge of his desk, that amused smirk curving his lips. "Euripides doesn't resign Medea's revenge to the trope of female whetting or inciting. Western literature gives us many examples of the fairer sex goading men, portrayed as the savage of the species, to violence to satisfy their desire for revenge..."

I could say this for the professor: he wasn't a misogynist. Though it created somewhat of an ethical dilemma for a crusading lit-feminist, Professor Cullen's course drew a disproportionately female enrollment due in equal parts to his reverence for women tucked inside a manuscript and the aesthetically pleasing package he presented.

"… When we look at Dostoyevsky and _The Idiot_, we arrive at the opposite end of the spectrum. Myshkin says of Nastasya Filipovna, 'You're so awfully unhappy that you really think you are yourself to blame …' Like Medea, Natasaya is discarded in favor of another woman. She manipulates the men around her in a complicated and dizzying search for retribution and self-actualization. But in the end, she finds neither. The woman dies unfulfilled. Totski describes her, remarking, 'Nastasya Filippovna is unbridled and pitiless in her desires and she will stop at nothing to satisfy them because she cares about nothing—least of all herself.' That's strong criticism, considering that Totski—"

"Fucked her," I said.

I felt Jacob tense. He sat back to put some distance between himself and the loose cannon in the room.

Professor Cullen remained silent a moment while he seemed to contemplate how best to deal with my interruption. Behind his implacable expression and composed demeanor, I knew his fingers itched to submit me.

"That is the implication," he said. "Though it isn't explicit—"

"Are you implying that this man, a much older man, procuring a child and raising her as a kept concubine on whom to express his perversions until the day he threw her away is not explicit?" I asked. "He didn't explicitly fuck her—it was all a bit of refined and well-mannered meeting of the flesh? Or do you mean to say that the text does not explicitly state he fucked her?"

"I believe you understood—"

"Assumption is a habit of fools and belief is a dangerous condition, professor."

"Isabella." His jaw clenched on his gritty admonition.

"I think I'm done here." As I stood, I dropped a torn piece of notebook paper in Jake's lap. "I'll take that lunch."

* * *

"It's weird, don't you think?" Jacob wiped his mouth, tossing the crumpled napkin on his lunch tray.

We sat in the student union—not the ideal setting for a first date, but then this wasn't the start of a romantic entanglement.

"How so?" I sipped my drink, having only picked at the salad before me. I didn't have much of an appetite with my stomach too full of anxious energy.

"It's been days. People have tried calling Angela, but she only texts back an hour or two later saying she's sick."

"Then she must be sick. What's weird about that?"

"I don't know." He stared at the empty burger wrapper in front of him, brow furrowed. "Just seems unusual for her. I mean, she hasn't asked anyone to send her the notes or anything."

"Did you invite me to lunch to talk about Angela?"

A boyish grin curved his lips and he sat back, relaxing his posture. "No, you're right. So…"

"Yes?"

"What happened with Mr. Wonderful?"

"And who would that be?"

"Your boyfriend," he said. "Ex-boyfriend."

"Didn't work out." I moved a cherry tomato around the plate with my fork, watching the red ball tumble over hills of lettuce.

"How come?" His right cheek grew, inflated by perceptible inches as his smile widened.

"You really want to know?"

"I do. What, nothing in common?"

"We have many shared interests," I said. "Books, bars." I stabbed the tomato and watched the juice ooze out. "We fucked like savages, but he didn't want a commitment."

"Well, then."

"Yep." I stood, gathering my trash from the table. "Come on. I need to stop by the professor's office."

Jacob was fine company. He had no glaring flaws. When he wasn't preoccupied with Angela's attendance, he was a decent conversationalist. For anyone else, his sincere smile and deliberately carved physique might have instigated a warm feeling of excited arousal. I found him bland, uncomplicated. In fifteen minutes Jake could tell me everything there was to know about him, and there wouldn't be a single childhood trauma or dead body in the lot.

* * *

"You're insane," Jake mumbled against my lips. I him pushed toward the front of Professor Cullen's desk. "What if—"

"Stop talking." The guy had received a shining golden ticket, a fast pass to the front of the line, instant access to the prize he'd hoped to win after a few unremarkable dates. You'd think he'd shut up and enjoy it.

The professor had a nasty habit of leaving his office door unlocked. Finding it dark and empty, I drew Jacob inside and shut the door behind us.

"I thought—"

"Don't think."

"I didn't—"

I bit his lip, tugging at the flesh as my hands slid down his chest. "Do you want me?"

"Yeah," he said in a hushed tone, so concerned we'd be found out.

"Then take it or leave it. This is happening. Now or never."

He grabbed a handful of my hair, his warm hand cradling the back of my neck, and lightly pressed his lips to mine. Leaning closer, I propped my knee on the front of the desk, hands fisted in Jake's shirt.

"Slow down," he said. "What's the rush?"

See, that was the problem. Even hiding out where we weren't supposed to be, doing what we shouldn't, Jake wanted to be romanced. He wanted candles and sweet nothings whispered at his ear. I didn't have that kind of patience or an interest in gentle affection.

"Shit," he hissed as my nails clawed down his back. He pushed me away. "The hell was that?"

"What?"

"Take it easy." His hand went to my hip, tentatively pulling me forward. "I'm not a scratching post."

"Whatever," I muttered, though he likely missed the response as he began nibbling at my neck. This couldn't end soon enough.

As I heard footsteps in the hall stepping closer, I hummed and moaned into Jake's mouth. It was not my proudest moment.

Light spilled into the room as the office door opened, a tall silhouette standing at the threshold. The lamp in the corner flicked on. Jake scurried like a cockroach to shove me away as Professor Cullen stood silent and seething inside his office.

"Get out," he said through a clenched jaw.

The muscle throbbing as a result of his grinding teeth never ceased to shock my blood. Jake was out the door before I could wipe his tepid kiss off my lips. I grabbed my bag from the floor and stepped toward the exit.

"Not you," he said, catching my arm.

"Yes, Professor?"

"Don't give me that." He shut the door to encase us in a tight, private box of boiling tension. "Your attitude—"

"My attitude?"

"You were a bit obvious, don't you think?"

"Obvious in what way, Professor?"

With his jaw locked, he exhaled through his nose. Those green eyes flamed with aggression, but no will to speak the words.

"This morning," he said. "What this-"

"This," I said, glancing back at his desk, "never happened."

"You knew what you were getting into." His posture altered with his tone. "You're too smart to be naïve.

"So you've said."

"Are we going to have a problem, Isabella?"

"Lock your doors, Professor."

* * *

"Please," the dean said as I entered his office, "take a seat."

Beside me, a man in a cheap suit sat with a leather folio open to a yellow legal pad. In the corner of the office, another man stood with his arms crossed.

"These are Detectives O'Dell and Morran," the dean began. "You're not in any trouble, Ms. Swan. They just have a few questions to ask. Is that okay?"

"This is about Angela," I said to Detective O'Dell beside me. His eyebrow rose just a fraction over his otherwise flat expression. "Jacob Black," I said. "You interviewed him this morning." The day following our tryst in the professor's office, Jake called to warn me to expect this meeting.

"That's right." He adjusted in his seat, crossing one leg over the other to balance the folio in his lap. "How well do you know Angela Weber?"

"We have a couple classes together. On Thursdays we attend a study group with our European Literature professor."

"Professor Edward Cullen," the dean clarified.

"Have you spent much time together outside of class?" O'Dell asked. "Socially."

I bit back a smirk. "No. We don't get along."

"How so?"

Glancing at the silent detective in the corner, I reclined in my seat. "I don't know how many people you've already had in this room today, but I'd venture a guess that every one of them will tell you that Angela and I hate each other. I think she's a insipid know-it-all and she thinks I'm a stuck-up cunt." The dean choked on my vocabulary, smothering his offense with a cough. "So, no, we don't hang out."

"When did you last see her?"

"Last Thursday in class. She accused me of sleeping with Professor Cullen."

"Ms. Swan—excuse me, Detective—Isabella, that is a serious claim. Perhaps—"

"She was mistaken," I told the dean before he gave himself a coronary. Looking back to O'Dell, I shrugged one shoulder. "Professor Cullen gave me a ride home after our study session. Angela concocted an illicit affair in her mind and confronted me before class. I told her where she could shove it." It was true. At the time. "The professor might have overheard some of the confrontation, though he never mentioned as much to me."

"And that evening?" O'Dell asked as he scribbled notes on his legal pad.

"She didn't show up at the coffee shop for study group. Jessica Stanley probably knows more than I do. They've been texting back and forth since then. I heard Angela's sick. Is that not the case?"

"Was she seeing anyone?" The detective in the corner, Morran, stepped forward.

"I don't know."

"Did you ever see Professor Cullen offer a ride home to Ms. Weber?"

"Detective—" The dean interrupted, but bit his tongue as Morran held up his hand for my answer.

"No."

"How would you characterize Professor Cullen's relationship with his female students?"

"What is this?" The dean stood from his desk. "Is he a suspect?"

"We have to pursue every viable angle," Morran said.

"You asked to interview my students about Ms. Weber's recent activity. You've done that. If you intend to investigate my faculty, you can do so with legal counsel present."

"Ms. Swan." Morran fixed his eyes on mine, waiting. "How would you describe Professor Cullen?"

"I would say he's intelligent, dedicated, and loves literature."

"There," the dean said, "are we done?"

"I would also say that he's a man with an edge about him. Passionate. Perhaps obsessive."

"That's enough. Ms. Swan, don't say another word. Detectives—"

Morran approached the desk, raising his voice at the dean. "If you insist on interrupting I will arrest you for interfering with an investigation and obstruction. Sit down."

The dean folded into this chair, reluctant and flustered.

"Someone hurt her," I said to the detectives. "Didn't he?"

"Have you spent much time with the professor?" O'Dell asked.

"Some. Study group, like I said."

"And…?"

"I would trust him to drive me home on a cold night."


	3. Chapter 3

_Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended._

**A/N: **Thank you all so much for the fantastic response to this story. I know I've kept you waiting while I wrestled with getting **The Northland Fires** ready to post (chapter 1 is up now), so I hope you enjoy this update. It's a bit short, but it was this or a longer wait. :-)

Also, I'm hosting a **fic contest** for stories about secret admirers. Details: strangerthanfictioncontest dot wordpress dot com. **Submissions open March 1st**.

* * *

**Taunted & Restless**

**Chapter 3**

The din of clinking mugs and indie rock accompanied the melody of conversation periodically drowned out by the production of steamed milk from the cappuccino machine. In the warm nook of the corner seating area, our study group sipped coffee while trading glances between the front door and each other.

On the sofa, Jake claimed the professor's usual seat beside me, his bent leg touching mine. I might as well have been sitting in a pool of puppy urine. For a couple of days, he made a show of giving me the cold shoulder, passive-aggressive juvenile, but the lure of PG-13 pawing brought him back on all fours.

"I don't think he's coming," Jessica said. The professor was habitually punctual, under normal circumstances. "Did anyone get an email?"

"Do you think…" As he took off his glasses, Ben paused, wiping the lenses with his shirt before slipping them on again. It was a nervous habit of his. During his first oral presentation in class, he repeated the gesture nine times. "We all got called in with the dean, right?"

Jake lobbed a look my way, the sort with which couples exchange telepathic messages. Except Jake couldn't infer subtext with a dictionary and I found him exceptionally easy to read. So, I guess it worked after all. Message received, Lassie.

"They asked about him," I said, stirring my drink. "How would I characterize the professor, the extent of our interactions outside of class. The detectives asked me to describe his general treatment of female students."

"Me too," Jessica said, as if jumping at the tail of a drifting balloon. "Wanted to know if Professor Cullen ever offered me a ride home or if I'd ever been alone with him."

"Did he?" Ben asked.

"Well, no. But that means something, yeah? I mean, come on, Angela goes missing—"

"Since when was she missing?" Leaning forward, Ben lowered his voice while peeking toward the door again. "You said Angela texted you back."

"Yeah, but…" Her brow furrowed. It was understandable that the disparity of evidence within the timeline left Jessica perplexed. Most things did. "I guess—"

"What did the detectives say, exactly?" Jake asked. By inches, all three drifted toward the center of the circle while I made patterns in head of my latte.

"They asked me about the last time I saw her," Ben said. "Wanted to know if she had a boyfriend, who she hung out with."

"I told them about the text messages," Jessica answered, swiping her thumb over the screen of her phone. "And—um—" She looked at me, all guilt and apology. "They wanted to know if she had any enemies."

"I confessed to a mutual dislike," I told her. "Seeing as how I'm not taking my meals through a slot in a cell door, it would seem that isn't motive enough to kill her."

"What?"

"Didn't they tell you?" Savoring chocolate and whipped cream, I licked my lips after a warm sip. "There would be a missing persons notice on campus if the police were looking for her. Angela's dead." With their stunned expressions following my movements, I picked up my bag and discarded the mug. "Which begs the question, who was having a bit of fun with her phone in the interim?"

"Where are you going?" Blocking my path, Jake stood and held my arm.

"The professor is either mounting a defense or keeping a low profile while the detectives rifle through his dirty unmentionables." I took the long away around the sofa to skirt Jake. "I'm going home to play the stereo too loud and take a hot bath."

Outside, the frigid wind penetrated my layers of clothing, clawing up my nose and pouring into my lungs. There was a car idling at the end of the block, lights off.

"Wait a minute." Door chimes rang as Jake met me on the sidewalk. Stuffing his hands in his pockets, he hunched his shoulders as he spoke. "You're just leaving?"

"I'm not interested in comparing notes with the Junior Baker Street Society. The police will do their jobs. It really isn't our problem."

"What the hell, Bella? You drop an anvil like that and your next thought is a fucking bubble bath?"

"You want to join me?" Stepping closer, I placed myself between Jake and the wall. "Bubbles are fun."

Good and evil vied for dominance on his shoulders. Eyes dropped to my lips, neck, and lower. His body swayed toward mine, one hand flat on the wall beside my head. He exhaled before meeting my eyes again.

"I don't get you," he said. "You're all hot and cold, and I'm not sure what's real with you."

"But I'm never boring."

"True." He inched closer, asking permission in the slowly closing space between us. Lips touched mine. Bland. "Want a ride home?"

"Thanks," I said, slipping away. "But bathing is my sacred ritual. See you tomorrow."

Icy cold resonated through my legs with each footfall on the solid pavement. I put three blocks in my wake before the idling car pulled up beside me. The tinted window lowered, letting out the sweet smell of clove smoke.

"Get in." That voice did things to me. Sharp steel with a serrated edge. Two words accomplished so much on his tongue.

"Ask me nicely."

"Get your sadistic little ass in my car, Isabella."

A pleasured smirk pulled at my lips. "Yes, Professor."

The window slid shut and the locks clicked as I closed the door. Trapped in a moving vehicle with his scent, his blood pulsing through those tense forearms, my thoughts turned carnivorous. His eyes followed the movement of the seatbelt across my chest and I tugged sharply, cinching the strap.

"Was that for my benefit?" he asked, staring ahead at the road passing beneath the tires.

"Did you enjoying watching?"

"Do you prefer he keeps his hands?"

"I'm indifferent."

"Then let him touch you again."

Reclining in the leather seat, I slid my hand over the professor's thigh to feel the rigid length of his jealously throbbing between his legs. But I wasn't in trouble for a little public display of unenthusiastic affection. The coiled viper beside me wanted to discuss the photographs. But first he had to have me somewhere private, without windows.


End file.
